Hurt
by MadamMuffins
Summary: Stiles isn't okay, no matter how little people notice. He has a lot problems he just can't seem to overcome. His arms are covered in his special little decorations and he takes great enjoyment out of counting his ribs. This is what happens when someone finally finds out. (Depressed!Stiles, Selfharm!Stiles, Anorexic!Stiles, Hurt!Stiles. Sterek if you squint.)


_Summary: Nobody ever noticed. It's miraculous really, when he thinks about it, how no one noticed. Maybe he'd just gotten that good at hiding it over the years. Someone who talked that much can't possibly feel like that. No way. Someone who acted like that can't possibly feel hurt by the words of others. No, that's just preposterous. Stiles had just gotten that good at deflecting people. Every time someone asks him if he's okay (which is, let's be honest here, a very rare occurrence) he makes a witty comment and fools them into thinking that he's one of the most carefree people to walk the earth. This, by the way, couldn't be further from the truth._

Stiles bit his lip as he dragged the blade down his forearm, not deep enough for it to be lethal, but deep enough to make it hurt. Blood pools up and trickled down and dripped onto the floor. The sight of the bright red highlighted by the white tiles brought a sadistic smile to Stiles' face. He continued to decorate his already covered arm in scars until he heard the front door slam. Then he quickly gathered the blades, wrapped his arm in a bandage and wipes the floor clean of blood – all before his Dad opened the door. He raised an eyebrow at his son.

"Why do you look so guilty?" he asked, head tilted to the side.

"Would you like to define that?" Stiles replied cheekily. The Sheriff ducked his head, smiling – knowing this drill all too well.

"I'm making some dinner, you want to come down?"

Stiles pulled an apologetic face, "I literally just ate something."

Lies.

The Sheriff sighed, but doesn't push the matter further. Stiles has stopped having dinner with him this long time. Then again, the Sheriff was usually out in the evenings. He shut the door, leaving Stiles to slump down by the wall once more. His alone time had been cut short and now he felt unaccomplished. Biting his lip, he made his way into the bathroom and shed himself of his clothing. Turning around to the mirror, naked, he inspected his body. Scars decorate his inner thighs, as his forearms and biceps are. There was barely any skin in those areas that has gone untouched. His stomach was hollow and you could count his ribs. But with the amount of layers Stiles wore, sun or rain, no one could really notice how thin he really was. Stiles had always been gaunt, cheekbones prominent and eyes practically out from his skull, so no one even questioned it. Stiles cupped his protruding hip bones, unhappy with the appearance. He knew he was too thin, but he's too afraid to put the weight back on. If he's ugly now, he'd be uglier if fatter. It's better to just keep the current weight consistent. He has never been happy with his appearance, and the blatant rejection from Lydia had proven how revolting he truly is. Inside and out. The self hate Stiles had for himself is deeply wedged into his very being and his entire life revolved around it. If he's not thinking about how disgusting he looked to other people he's thinking about how they obviously don't want him around and hate him almost as much as he hates himself. Hell, for someone to hate Stiles to the magnitude of which he hated himself is practically impossible. The pack expressed their obvious distaste for him often enough. Lydia looked at him as though he's a deadly plague, Jackson would never pass an opportunity to make him feel like crap, Derek was constantly reminding him how much of a weak human he is (when he's not maiming Stiles in the physical sense) and Scott… Scott had Allison and was obviously tired of Stiles. That's why he only talked to him about werewolf or Allison related things. Stiles can't remember the last time they made plans with just each other, no pack no Allison. The rest of the pack don't even try to hide how bored they are of his constant Stiles can't help it. When he got nervous, words tumbled out of him and he had no control. It's like a stab to the gut when someone brushed everything he says off. The only valuable thing he does for the pack was research, and even that was taken for granted. They don't want him. No one wanted him around, not even himself.

Stiles goes for his shower and cleans the newly made cuts before lathering them in a scented ointment that always throws the werewolves off. Maybe the ointment actually doesn't do anything and they just don't care that he slashes up his arm almost every day. Pulling on some comfortable clothing, he slides into bed – sandwiched beneath the covers, soothing his aching limbs. It takes him ages to get to sleep and when he finally succumbs to the darkness, he's plagued by nightmares of his mother's death.

When Stiles woke up he's shivering, regardless of the fact that his room is pretty warm. He's hardly ever warm nowadays, all the heat left with the weight. Ignoring the ache in his bones, Stiles rolled out of bed and gets ready for the day ahead. Skinny jeans beneath a pair of baggier jeans, two t-shirts beneath a jumper beneath a hoodie and a thick pair of socks. The numbing pain in Stiles' stomach is so bad this morning that he feels compelled to eat. Slicing an apple into thin pieces and slowly eating it takes up to an hour, and by then he's already late.

By the time he got into school, he only had a few minutes to go to his locker. He could see Scott talking to Allison, as per usual. Stiles grabs his math book and shuts the locker, taking a gulp before he turned around to initiate conversation.

"Good morning!" he said brightly, swinging his arms over Scott's and Allison's shoulders.

"Get off, Stiles," Scott whined as Allison laughed, more at Scott's reaction.

"Did someone get up on the wrong side of the bed?" Stiles pouts, his tone light. Scott rolls his eyes with a slight smile and departs down the hallway with Allison. All Stiles can do is hastily follow.

At the end of the day Stiles tallied up the amount of times he's been cast out. There were eight, if anyone cares. Three snide remarks from Lydia, two disregarding comments from Scott, two physical things with Jackson and now one with Derek. Derek was waiting outside the school for the pack to emerge. Stiles feels Derek's eyes on him and instantly regrets gorging at lunch. He could probably see the slight bulge. Some extra cardio tonight should sort that out. The pack bundles into Stiles' car, where he is forced to drive them to Derek's – regardless of the fact that all he felt like doing was going home and sleeping. Derek wanted to start training, but made Stiles sit on the sidelines and watch because, "he'd hardly be much use when the time calls for it."

So Stiles sat there, calling out witty comments once in a while. No one found them funny or even acknowledged him. Stiles absentmindedly started to press down on his new cut, probably drawing blood.

"Stiles, are you bleeding?" Derek asked suddenly, making the whole pack stop and stare at Stiles.

"Who me? Yeah, probably. Menstruation and all that jazz. I think I'm just going to go home and sleep it off," Stiles lied smoothly, pressing his now bleeding arm by his side.

The pack don't say anything as they watch him slink out to his car. When they hear it start up and drive off, they look at each other –eyes narrowed.

"That was definitely blood," Scott said in the midst of the group silence.

"Did he get hurt at lacrosse today?" Derek, surprisingly, is the one to speak next. Scott and Jackson shake their heads.

"We would have noticed."

They relapse into silence once more.

"Keep training," Derek barked, leaving abruptly. Unknown to the rest of the pack, except maybe Lydia, Derek was probably more concerned than the others. So that's exactly why he immediately makes his way to Stiles' house. As soon as he arrived he smelt blood. More specifically, Stiles' blood. Even more concerned at this point, he made his way up to the window and peered in. Stiles was standing there, shirtless. Which, quite frankly, alarmed him. Stiles was nothing but skin and bone, with protruding hips, clavicles and ribs. How he was still capable of functioning normally baffled Derek. Stiles began unwrapping his forearm from a bandage and Derek's eyes grew when he saw what was beneath. His forearm was covered in scars, some scabbing over, some pink and fresh, some old and white and some still bleeding.

Derek cursed under his breath as he watched Stiles clean the self inflicted wound. Examining Stiles' body further, Derek then noticed the other scars that were littered across his skinny form. How long has this been going on? For one of the first times in his life, Derek doesn't know what to do.

Turns out, he doesn't have to. Just as he was about to get up and leave, Stiles happened to turn toward the window and spot him. The look that spread across Stiles' features was that of pure panic. He didn't move, he just stood there and stared at Derek – who was staring right back, his mouth agape.

_Open the window, _Derek mouthed. As predicted, Stiles shook his head rather violently. Derek shot him a glare that would make the Sheriff quake in his boots. Biting his lip, Stiles unlocks the window and walks back to his bed where he proceeds to put on a thick jumper that Derek has never seen Stiles in. Stiles sits down, wrapping his arms around himself, not saying anything. Derek has never seen Stiles this vulnerable.

"Why?" are the only words Derek uttered, still in shock.

"Why not?" Stiles responded with a shaky laugh.

"You're killing yourself."

"Don't be stupid," Stiles pulled his knees up to his chest and hugged them tightly, "I'd never let myself get that bad."

"You already have!" Derek snapped, making Stiles jump and knee himself in the face. Derek involuntarily rolled his eyes at the boy's clumsiness.

"Can you leave?" Stiles said, after a few moments of tense silence. "I'm tired."

Derek shook his head, "if I leave, you might hurt yourself."

"Like you'd care," Stiles mumbled, choosing to ignore the fact that Derek has super-de-duper werewolf hearing.

"Of course I would," he spat back, much more aggressively than he originally intended. Stiles fixed him with a glare.

"If you snore I'll pee on everything you love," he mumbled, getting into bed and turning off the light, not even bothering to get Derek a pillow. Derek didn't blame him, he would probably have reacted the same way. The next day, Derek awoke on the floor to the sound of Stiles leaving the room. How he managed to get ready without Derek noticing is beyond him. Unable to go downstairs, due to the Sheriff, Derek elected to leave the house.

Stiles continued his day in school as normal, cracking a few jokes and whatnot. When, in all reality, he was fuming on the inside at Derek and how he was acting. Why couldn't he just stay out of Stiles' god damn business? When the day is over, Stiles immediately heads home and, well, he can't say he's surprised when he sees Derek waiting for him in his room. Stiles rolled his eyes and continued on as though the werewolf isn't inspecting his CD collection.

This continues for a week before Stiles began to feel redrawn from not cutting. He now took a blade into school and cut at lunch time or in between classes. Not eating and his obsessive exercise was a problem. Going to the gym at school was a no go and Derek refused to let Stiles do anything more than a half hour. As for skipping meals? Derek watches Stiles eat and refuses to let him go to the bathroom after meals.

It's a prison within his own home. Derek may think he's helping, but he's making everything so much worse. This cycle of sneaking around continued for a further week before Derek noticed. The confrontation was not a pretty one.

"I thought we were past this!" Derek roared, gesturing blindly at the smudge of blood on the floor left from Stiles' recent cutting on the heel of his foot.

"Exactly! _You!" _

"I'm going to tell Scott," Derek lowered his voice so much it could have been counted as a vicious threat. The panic that fleeted across Stiles' face made Derek's gut twist uncomfortable.

"Fine, tell him," Stiles said, very quietly. Derek blinked at him. "I really don't care at this point. In fact, you can go ahead and tell the whole pack," Stiles sneered, sounding quite unlike himself.

"Actually, you're going to tell them," he mimicked Stiles' sneer. Stiles laughed, unsuccessfully masking his nervousness.

"Best of luck with that, buddy."

When Stiles left the room Derek texted the whole pack and they arrived within minutes of the urgent text. Derek forced them to enter the house through the window, which they all begrudgingly obliged to. By the time Stiles came back in the room, it was dark and the pack was growing restless.

Stiles stopped in his tracks, eyes wide and mouth gaping like a fish. "Well… shit," he lets out a breezy laugh. Scott furrows his eyebrows.

"Derek called us here, man. Said there was something wrong with you," he said, advancing towards Stiles, who was extremely uncomfortable seeing as he was standing there in pajama pants and a very thin long sleeve t-shirt.

"Yeah, Stiles. What's wrong?" Lydia stepped forward as well, crossing her arms over her chest and tilting her head to the side as though she's trying to assess why they were brought here.

"Derek was just screwing with you guys," he shot a firm grin in Derek's direction, "isn't that right, Derek?"

"No, Stiles, that's not right."

"Come on, I haven't got all day," Jackson added, impatiently. Lydia starts twirling a piece of her hair, Allison tugged at Scott's sleeve obviously bored and the rest are just looking pissed off. Stiles gritted his teeth and tugged the sleeves of his shirt up to reveal his scarred forearms. He held them out and studied the reactions of the pack.

Allison gasped, Lydia's hand flies to her mouth, Scott doesn't do anything and Derek is gnawing at his lip. Stiles doesn't bother to look at the rest, knowing they're not bothered in the slightest.

So that's why it surprises Stiles when Erica spoke up. "Why?"

"Why not?" he paused, looking around again. "I have more, but I'd prefer not to strip right now, thank you very much."

"Why?" it was Scott who spoke that time, his voice sounding strangled.

"Shall I list why not?" Stiles felt himself growing angry. They had no idea. They didn't understand, and in that moment, he blindly hated them. "I watched my mother die, not that any of you know. Except for you, Scott. You even had the decency to come to her grave ever since that happened. You missed this year, by the way. You were hanging out with Alison. Then again, you're always hanging out with Alison."

Allison looked hurt.

"No no, Allison, it's not your fault that Scott's completely infatuated with you. I'm not jealous at all, it'd just be nice to have my best friend back for a bit. Or to talk to him without his girl or wolfy problems popping up over the goddamn place. Don't worry Scott, it's not all you! I can literally spout out something wrong with everything you guys do to me, but I won't because that'd be mean and pointless because you'll just keep doing it."

Stiles pursed his lips, clasping his hands in front of him. "I suppose if I add that I won't eat, unless sour wolf over there forces the damn stuff down my throat, won't help my case. I'm pretty fucked up, I get that. But I'd appreciate it if you toned down your obvious dislike for me, just a tiny bit. It kinda hurts how it's constantly proven how much you guys hate me," his voice went low at the end as he looked down at his bare feet.

Stiles raised his head and jerked his thumb toward the door behind him. "I'm going to go. Make yourselves comfortable."

The door clicks shut and everyone in the room was utterly silent.

"Jesus Christ," Jackson breathed, massaging his jaw between his fingers.

"How long did you know about this?" Scott whispered to Derek without turning around.

"Two weeks."

"And you didn't think of telling any of us?" Lydia snapped.

"It's hardly like you noticed anything was wrong," he retorted.

"That's because it's Stiles," Scott hadn't moved from his spot, "Stiles doesn't get depressed. God, I'm a sucky best friend."

With that he ran out the door, leaving the rest of the pack in the room.

"Do you think he'll find him?" Jackson asked no one in particular. No one bothered to answer.

Meanwhile, Scott was following Stiles scent and within two minutes of following he figured out where he would have gone.

"How did you know I was here?" Stiles mumbled against the headstone, not bothering to look up at Scott who had just arrived.

"Hey Mrs Stilinski," Scott waved at the grave, "sorry I missed your anniversary this year. I was off being an asshole."

Stiles lifted his head.

"You see, your kid is like the best guy I know and I've been so horrible to him. I've ignored him, I've ranted about him, I've treated him like a waste of space – which he is most definitely not. The thing is, Mrs Stilinski, your son is like a brother to me and hopefully I'm still like a brother to him."

When Scott looked down at Stiles again he can clearly see the tears flowing freely down his face. Scott knelt down beside him and wrapped his arms around his best friend. Stiles slumped into his arms, grabbing the sleeve of his hoodie and sobbing grossly into it.

"I'm so sorry," he sobbed.

"I'm sorry too," Scott found himself crying, but somehow he didn't mind.

I know there are a lot of errors, but I blame the fact that I wrote this when I couldn't sleep. There's probably a change in tenses but I cannot be arsed to go back and edit them. Anyway, I actually don't watch a lot of Teen Wolf - so I apologise for any mistakes in the characters and what not. Stiles is my favourite character, based off of the few episodes I've watched and the many fanfictions I've read. But I always felt as though he was unappreciated. I've read a few fics like this, but decided to contribute to the genre of depressed!Stiles selfharm!Stiles anorexic!Stiles. Hopefully, you've enjoyed this oneshot somewhat.


End file.
